


you'll surely drown here if you stay

by okayantigone



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Catholicism, Character Study, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, References to Norse Religion & Lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-15 08:48:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16059650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okayantigone/pseuds/okayantigone
Summary: “you were so brave,” frigga says. “and you have suffered enough.”and she leads him into the golden halls of valhalla, where people are laughing, drinking and making merry, where he is worthy now, and welcome, and loved.





	you'll surely drown here if you stay

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rainbowshoes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbowshoes/gifts).
  * Inspired by [(Don't) Leave Me Alone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9355880) by [Potterwatch97](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Potterwatch97/pseuds/Potterwatch97). 



> the title is from ayssa wong's story of the same name (you can read it in the Uncanny Magazine). 
> 
> the line "what has this life done to you" is from this tony-centric tear-jerker: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9355880

 

you’ll surely drown here if you stay

tony does not pray anymore. tony has not prayed in such a long time.  
maria carbonell stark had gone to church every Sunday and dragged him with her. she had prayed, staunchly, had clasped his small hand in hers before dinner, and asked for their daily bread to be blessed.

and when she raised the quintessential glass of red wine to her mouth while howard was out and Jarvis was not in the room to attend the liquor cabinet, and she would wink at him each time, the blood of the Lord, which she did take into her body, daily, with breakfast, lunch, dinner, and the in-between snacks. his mother had smelled like communion. had smelled like absolution.

and if prayer was not enough to save her from howard’s mistakes, what hope did tony have? howard too must have had absolution on his breath when he wrapped the jaguar around that three, on a lonely curve of winter road maria carbonell stark took her last breath, the name of the lord on her lips, and she joined a line of holy ghosts, and tony grieved, but did not pray.

he stood in the cold alcove of the church, tasted the blood of the lord to keep himself standing upright, and he stared up ahead at the priest who talked about the sins of the father, and stared at the two black polished caskets, and knew that just and right were not the same thing.

the lord had punished howard, and exacted his price in maria.

okay then, you vindictive bastard, tony thought. if that’s how you want to play it.

and he stopped praying. it hadn’t saved his mother. it hadn’t saved him. he snorted the divine ashes of the lord and poured stark blood money into the coffers of the church, purchasing the perpetual preemptive indulgence.

if there was a heaven, he would buy his place there, just like howard had. and if there was nothing… then he didn’t have to worry, did he? he took communion in his room before sleep. a bottle’s worth. two, three, four… he was holy.

he became holy. there was a hole in his chest, heart carved out, and he heard the voices of his captors, they bade him stand, so he stood, they bade him build, so he built. command me to be well, tony thought, because he was sick, and nothing had healed him. there was a hole in his heard shaped after his mother’s wine-stained smiles, and vodka-thick singing voice, and the lord spoke unto him kill the infidel in my name.

the lord’s voice sounded suspiciously like tony’s own self-preservation instinct. pain, and blood, and metal, and him emerging victorious and righteous, a crusader, his own savior, because no one else would come for him. no one was listening to him pray.

he knew that now. and if he could not find justice in this world… he would create it. if god would keep on taking, it was up to tony to tip the scales. da vinci too had felt divine.

obie had a priest at his funeral. tony talked to him. the priest asked him how long since his last confession. but tony’s conscience was clear. he had nothing to confess. he drank until he blacked out, and he woke up disappointed to find himself still alive.

someone up there must have really been looking out for him. maybe it was his mother, enacting holy influence as she did, as though the inheritance she left him after the shape of her rosary and the imprint of her brandy-choked breath was not enough, but she had to keep him alive too, so he could continue disappointing her.

stop trying to save me, he thought, you couldn’t even save yourself.

in his darkest moments he imagines howard’s vague downwards spiral. in a three piece pinstripe suit, he would descend the steps, abandon all hope ye who enter here, the bastard was probably toasting obie over some infernal fire.

and there is no divine intervention. no one comes to save him. no one had ever come to save tony. and he did not pray, but he drank and threw his money away, and then drank some more, because he was going to go out on his own goddamn terms. he was tired of being the only person fully in his corner. and when nick fury came into his life, a part of tony was tempted to spit into the man’s face. to tell him that it was too damn late.

he imagines the conversation with his dad’s old pal. you failed to protect me. now i’m going to fail to protect you in return.

fury was just another brick of pavement in the path of well-menaing, useless adults who’d seen the bruises shaped after howard’s hands and turned away to hand his mother another drink.

and tony locked eyes with him, looked at him hard. he wondered if fury ever went to church. or maybe he too, like tony, was content to trust only in the justice he could build with his own two hands.

and so, it was only fitting that when tony met his patron saint, he’d try to kill him. lo, behold loki, of asgard, god of trickery, and lies and mischief, god of fire, and evil, the birther of monsters, in his golden armor, oh… tony thought about kneeling. thought about saying i prayed to you, and you never came.

his god was as tangible as tony’s own armor, handsomel cut of marble, cheekbones hollow, and his eyes swimming with madness like a drunk. tony thought of maria carbonell stark and he rfine-boned hands as she gestured wildly, the same mad smile on her red-painted lips, oh mama had loved her communion wine far too much.

worthy, tony thinks, i want you to know that i am worthy.  
“if you could make god bleed, no one would believe in him,” ivan vanko whispers in his ear. tony wants to try it. wants to rip this god to pieces with his bare hands, no armor, no reactor, just him and his hollow rage.

if gods are real, how come none of you saved her? if gods are real, how come none of you saved me?

he settles, instead, for waiting. he will take his issue up with the divinity. he will make them tell him why.

thunder echoes, and all tony thinks is “here we go.”

steve rogers does not believe they are gods. steve rogers believes in the god that maria stark followed down the bottlenecks of the Monticello. tony hopes the gods make steve rogers bleed. and if they do, maybe people will stop believing in him too.

he claims loki as his own, snarling in the face of thor the righteous. that is not his god. his god is of deceit. thor does not recognize the lying child with the bruises. thor does not claim the man who would have killed his father twice over if it meant saving his mother. but loki does. and then… tony makes a god bleed.

he imagines the invasion as the monument in which a legacy lives. he will lay the ruin of his heart at its steps, and finally, finally, he will breathe. the vacuum of space is black, and lined with stars, like mama’s diamonds on her velvet evening gown. and if he saves the world, maybe he will step in front of the pearly gates. if he is so, so brave, maybe finally Valhalla’s golden gates will open. he hopes it’s enough. to die a hero. here, where it is cold, and vast and lonely, he is powerful still, and beloved.

pepper’s face fades from the call screen, and jarvis’ voice becomes a breath of a memory, and if this is the end… it’s beautiful.

please, god, he thinks, let me be enough.

he opens his eyes on a wrecked new york street, and a scream of frustration bubbles its way up his throat before he can stop it. his sacrifice has been worthy in the wrong way. he has been deemed worthy a second chance. or third. or fifth. what does he remember?

two gods stand in the ruins of his home, and he thinks, maybe it’s time to start praying again.

“it was not your time yet, brother stark,” thor whispers conspiratively, clapping an arm on his shoulder.

eat shit, howard, tony thinks. i was just proclaimed the shield brother of a god.

loki meets his eyes over his muzzle and shakes his head. tony closes his eyes. “please loki,” he thinks, “lead me not astray.”  
loki’s eyes crinkle with mirth. huh, tony thinks, so prayer does work.

but when aldritch killian plummets him 500 feet down into an ice cold watery grave, suddenly all lines seem to be blocked, huh? loki is still imprisoned, but what is thor’s excuse?

he crawls through snow and ice and his teeth chatter, and he comes back down to the knowledge that his gods will not come when called. maybe he should have let loki kill them. maybe that would have been justice.

and if the divine will not protect him, tony will build safety of his own, will carve out a haven from this floating chunk of dirt that has been given to his species, and he will save them. thor’s fury and disappointment weigh on him heavy when Ultron fails. when he fails.

none of this would have happened if you had just listened to me, he thinks desperately.

but no one wants to hear it from him. that’s okay. he’s used to it. bereft of friends and divine patrons, feeling still wanda’s hate deep into the marrow of his bones, maybe, he reasons, maybe it’s time to step back from it all.

his prayers and phone calls are unanswered. he is as alone as he started. his mother’s rosary rests heavy in his hand. the smooth glass of the Monticello is cold in the other. baptism by fire and a funeral on the water. he should have died in that beautiful expanse of starry sky, a friend, a fiancée, a beloved shield-brother. he should have died in the new year fires of killian’s revenge, a self-sacrifice of love.

in the darkened halls of the penthouse, armed only with the holy blood, that which saves him every time, he speaks without slurring his speech, in the absence of a god to trust in, reaching for the next best thing.

“the avengers must be regulated, president ellis. i’m sure you understand.”

he builds his own commandments. there’s a whole lot more than ten, but what can you do? he’s sure there were more rules for the angels than there were for the humans. i mean, how bad could one sad, soft, fleshy little mortal fuck up, as compared to a many-winged, all-powerful being of brimstone and fire?

he drinks wine and wears his suits. maria carbonell stark’s wine-heavy smile is the softest part of his memories. he relives it over and over again, her Campari fuelled hands on the piano, her vodka-soaked hymns in his heart.

maybe this is what heaven is. a happy stretch of an afternoon. over, and over, and over. he lives in those final minutes and drinks through everything else. finally, he can see how his mother put up with it all. he toasts her memory to her memory and sells a dream of healing to an eager audience.

it hadn’t fixed him, but it hadn’t made him feel any worse.

his gods weren’t listening. his heaven became the idea of a love bereft of betrayal.

he had done everything right. he had prayed, and he had donated. he had begged, on his knees. and then he had made gods bleed, and acquiesced his power, and then reclaimed it. he had danced the dance. he had saved people, and no one had saved him.

steve rogers slammed his shield into tony’s heart. his father’s weapon too, had not protected him.

tony thought of the snow and the ice, his lungs filling up with blood. was that the landscape blurred with healing on jotunheim? had it survived loki’s rage? because tony… tony would not survive steve’s.

please, he thinks. loki. thor. odin. whomever. please. enough. i am so tired.

it’s as cold as it was in that beautiful unfurling nothingness illuminated by the glow of the sacrifice that would secure his forgiveness. he was alone, with the memory of death. his mother’s voice, thick with wine and blood had called out for howard. and in his last breath… howard had begged for her life. what tony found was not forgiveness, but it was near.

he hoped maybe, when the pearly gates opened to him, he could kneel at his father’s feet.

i am worthy, he would say, look at me. i am worthy.

please, allfather. let this be enough.

and his eyes open to high domed ceilings, mosaics depicting a slender dark haired youth smiling with a golden mother. his eyes open to the polished marble of a ballroom, where maria carbonell stark is resplendent in diamonds and pearls, her platinum hair done in curls, her hands dancing in the air like two white doves.

tony touches his chest. his heart is where it has always been, the casting of the reactor now a vibrant gold. it doesn’t hurt anymore. his eyes well up with tears.

the golden mother comes to him, and she too is beautiful, like a memory from a dream.

“is it over?” tony whispers, because he can’t bear to speak any louder. “please… please, is it over?”

frigga, mother of mothers, she who raised tony’s gods, lays a hand on his arm, and her eyes are so warm. the warmth in her eyes is enough to power a hundred thousand arc reactors for a hundred thousand years.

“oh, you beautiful boy,” she says, and he feels as though her heart will break any moment, which makes no sense. she is not his mother. what does she care.

“you were so brave,” she says. “and you have suffered enough.”

and she leads him into the golden halls, where people are laughing. maria carbonell stark, her smile soft – happy, but not with drink, turns around, and her eyes sparkle like her diamonds.

she takes him in – the exhausted lines of his face, and his new golden heart. “tony,” she calls out, breathless with delight, and opens her arms for him. “what has this life done to you?”

he doesn’t have the strength to tell her, merely collapses into her warmth, breathes in chanel perfume and communion wine, and he is absolved.

 


End file.
